


No Cause for Concern

by hippydeath



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 20:36:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hippydeath/pseuds/hippydeath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lot can change in a year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Cause for Concern

No one expected Galahad to be the first to leave. He might have been the one who complained the hardest about being stationed at Hadrian’s wall, might have had the greatest reason for hating the place, but it was expected that he wouldn't leave until Gawain did. The fact that they had done everything together for years; that Gawain spoke for the younger man on frequent occasions, and the fact that their tribes were in close proximity to each other lead Arthur and the other knights think that they would eventually leave the country together.

But something happened after Badon hill and Gawain changed.

He withdrew from his old friends and found a place for himself in another town under Arthur’s leadership. When he did socialise with his old comrades he was quieter, and while there were speculations it was because of an unsubstantiated rumour of a relationship between he and Tristan, no one ever found out what had caused his sudden change in personality.

Galahad waited. Bided his time. Took pointless jobs that took him close to Gawain and each time they saw each other they spoke of leaving and going home, and each time Gawain found a reason to delay.

And so Galahad finally grew tired of the delays and the excuses and at the height of summer, announced that he was returning to the homeland. Alone. He did not tell Gawain.

It was Bors who was given the job of telling Gawain, several weeks after the event.

  
"So he actually did it then?" Gawain was torn between dismay that his closest friend had left without telling him, and an overwhelming joy that Galahad had finally managed to break free of the ties that seemed to have bound them so closely together.

Bors nodded. "A month just gone. We tried to get him to tell you himself but he would hear nothing of it."

"That would be like him."

"So are you finally gonna leave this dump then?"

Gawain thought, then shrugged. "No, not at the moment, the harvest's due soon and there's work to be done."

Grunting, Bors scratched his head, "So that's it then. He’s gone, you're practically gone, and Arthur’s some grand overlord now. Just me and the bastards I suppose."

"It’s always been you and the bastards Bors," Gawain laughed, "they're just different bastards now."

 

They spent the night drinking and reminiscing, and when Bors finally left the following afternoon, he thought that the weight that Gawain had been carrying around with him since Badon Hill had gone, and that they would see more of the blond knight.

  
Summer turned, predictably into a bountiful autumn, which gave way to a cold winter during which there were many deaths. Bors lost a son which rocked both he and Vanora badly, and Arthur came close to losing Guinevere to the same illness. The two men spent many long hours drinking to their sorrows when the situation had calmed down, and after many months of not being mentioned, the subject came round to Gawain, and his absence from their lives.

"Do you think he'll ever be back?"

Bors snorted. "Not with Galahad gone."

"So that's it then. The famed Sarmatian knights are no more." Arthur declared morosely, and drained his cup.

"Indeed." Bors looked around sluggishly. "We should get back to our wives."

He left a few minutes later, leaving Arthur to mull over his thoughts on his own.  
   


  
Gawain's winter was far less eventful. The small town he had come to govern was spared the fever that had ravaged the rest of the country, with few falling sick, and the harvest had been as bountiful as anywhere else, allowing them to survive with little contact with the outside world.

  
Spring was a time for celebration. For having survived the winter, celebrating the lives of those who hadn't been so fortunate, and for the renewal of life.

The strangely chill spring made way for a too warm summer, which found Guinevere, pregnant with Arthur's heir complaining bitterly about the heat, and Arthur doing his best to placate her.

Bors found his first summer of freedom with his children tiring, although Vanora seemed to find only amusement in his complaints. When he wasn't minding the bastards, who nearly all had names now, he was running the errands that Galahad had once done, and found that Gawain, while still sombre was again changed, and was more inclined to talk of the past, and was even considering heading for the homelands at last.

"I think," he said halfway through a meal one July evening, "that it's time I left this place, found myself that Sarmatian woman and settled down."

Bors wasn't particularly shocked. "Go after Galahad first?" he asked round a chicken leg.

"Maybe. I think though, maybe his leaving was his way of saying that he wants nothing more to do with us." He thought for a moment, "or maybe just me. In any case, I doubt I'd be too welcome."

"Well even so, you'd best find your way back to the fort before you leave. I think Guinevere'd have your head even if Arthur was too polite to complain."

"I will. Anything to spare Arthur from dealing with more of Guinevere's bloodshed, I hear she's more abusive than Vanora was."

Bors raised an eyebrow, "Almost. Nothing could top how bad Vanora was."

Gawain just nodded and laughed, and the conversation fell to less important topics as the night wore away.

  
_He'd been angry when he left. He'd felt betrayed by everything and everyone that he'd considered important to him, and after months of idling away his freedom he'd decided to stop waiting and go. Home had called to him and he'd finally answered._

He'd found that home wasn't as he'd remembered it. His parents were aged and his place had been taken by a younger brother he didn't know existed. The girl who'd been promised to him had married another, and there was little to do but farm and drink; things he had left Britain to avoid.

He stayed the winter, he felt he owed it to them at least to help them through the ravages of the hardest season, but after that, he bid his tearful farewells to his parents and family, and returned across the continent and the sea. Back to the place of his servitude.

  
It was the start of August when Gawain finally found the time to return to the fort that had been his home for so long. He was greeted by an eerie silence and stabled his horse himself. Taking his pack on his shoulder he headed for what had once been the room the knights would meet in; the home of the round table, but even that was deserted at this time.

Eventually he found a group of people in a room since converted into a chapel, quietly, for even if he didn't share their beliefs, he had learnt it was better to at least respect them, he approached one of them.

"Lass," he touched the girl lightly on the shoulder and she spun round. "Where is everyone?"

"Prayin', or helping." She replied, and Gawain looked on at her, puzzled. "The Lady Guinevere's child has come too early. Everyone with any experience has been called to help with the birth, most other people are prayin' for them both."

Gawain held back a snort of laughter at what he thought Guinevere would have to say about people praying for her. The thought crossed his mind that he should go and lend his aid in some way, then realised that he had no experience in the matter. "Where's Bors?" He rationalised that Vanora would be helping with the birth, so Bors would most likely be keeping Arthur well out of the way, and that was probably the best place for him to be.

"The tavern I would have thought."

"Many thanks." He patted her on the shoulder and turned on his heel, heading for the tavern.

  
Arthur wasn't with Bors. It turned out he was praying in his quarters and refused to come out. He hadn't eaten since Guinevere's labour had started a day and a half ago, and Bors had given up trying to cajole him out of the room, or to eat anything.

He was rocking his youngest daughter on his knee, but quickly placed her on the table and leapt to his feet when he saw Gawain, engulfing the other knight in an embrace.

"You picked a right time to turn up Gawain."

"I see. Other than Guinevere, anything happening?" He wanted to know how the border was holding, how the crops were growing. He played with the little girl as he listened, spinning her round as she squealed with delight. It took him a few minutes to realise that Bors had stopped talking and was watching him.  
"You'd make a good father one of these days."

Gawain shook his head, "I doubt that." He set the little girl down, "Is there a free room somewhere, I've been on the road too long."

  
Guinevere finally gave birth in the early hours of the next morning, and the entire fort burst into celebration. Both mother and child had the same stubborn will that kept them fighting through the hardest days when the finest physicians were sure that neither would survive.

The celebrations wore themselves out after a couple of weeks, and routines were returned to as the harvest drew near. Gawain found himself helping in the fields with Bors, and even Arthur joined them occasionally, claiming to be taking a break from the excessive thinking that leadership forced on him, while Bors countered that it was Guinevere and the child that he was escaping.

By mid-September, the fields were emptying and it was the turn of the orchards to be plundered for their produce to be put into storage for the winter. The crops this year hasn't been as bountiful as the year before, but Arthur and to a lesser extent Gawain were content that their homes would make it through, providing that illness didn't hit them too hard.

The end of September remained unusually warm, and Gawain was relaxing on the wall of the fort, watching the buzzard’s wheel in the air, when the rider approached by way of the southern gate. There was nothing unusual about this; messengers and traders came and went on a daily basis, and other folk occasionally came to seek counsel or petition Arthur, but something about the slightly edgy stance of the rider set Gawain on edge and made him give up his view and peace to go and see why someone would be so tense on entering what was one of the safer parts of the country.

  
_The last year had changed him; his hair was longer, straighter as the weight pulled it down and he'd taken to tying it out of the way. His face and bare forearms were browned by the months he'd been travelling, and the lines of his face were deeper from the wind, although Bors would come to joke they were from all the thinking he did while he was gone. He'd stopped wearing the tunic after the colds of Sarmatia showed him that the winters he'd lived through in Britain were nothing._

And his posture had changed. Sarmatia had humbled him somewhat; after seeing the way that his family had lived he'd realised that he'd had it easy while he'd served Rome. He'd found his family and found that they weren't what was missing in his life; what was had sent him back to Britain with a wild hope and a strange numbing rationalisation in his heart. He both hoped Gawain was still there, yet deep down realised that if he'd left, then it was just as likely that Gawain had, and that his journey would be wasted. Not a pleasant thought, but one that he hoped would give him some kind of finality to that part of his life if that was what he found.

Bors met Gawain just outside the gate, sent by Arthur to greet the rider, but none of them knew who it would be, so the two men were struck dumb when the gates opened and Galahad rode through. Strained pleasantries were exchanged as Galahad dismounted; Bors awkwardly embracing the other knight while Gawain just offered a hand, then saw to the stabling of the exhausted looking horse and found a runner to take Galahad's bags to a room.

The three of them made the silent journey to where Arthur granted audiences, to be told by Jols that he was indisposed at the present time but would call for them when he was free.

Which left them milling around in the tavern, getting under Vanora's feet and amusing the children. Or at least Bors and Gawain were. Galahad just sat there, watching Gawain intently.

"So, no pretty Sarmatian woman to keep you at home?" Bors broke the silence after a few moments, and Galahad just shook his head in reply, gazing at his hands.

"I thought there was..." Gawain piped up.

"She'd married someone else by the time I got back." Galahad cut him off quickly. "Probably for the best. I'm not much of a farmer." He tried to crack a smile, but went back to looking at his hands.

Jols saved the awkwardness by arriving and announcing that Arthur was free to see them, and they silently made their way back through the fort.

Arthur was glad to see Galahad back, and showered him with questions on the state of the arts of the Empire that he'd travelled through, what the state of Sarmatia was, and whether he'd be staying or leaving again when spring came. Galahad answered as best as he could; he'd paid as little attention to the Empire as he could, and there was little changed in how the homelands were from what the last dispatches that Arthur had received had told him. And the last question stung; he told Arthur he simply wasn't sure and that he'd see how he felt come the spring, but in truth there were more important things that would decide what he did.

  
He was left to share a room with Gawain, who, despite having spent several months back at the fort had not managed to make the room his own again; his things were still mostly in his saddlebags, and only a few papers sat on the desk. In the space of an hour Galahad managed to have the room looking much like it had when they'd shared it during their service, and Gawain was cursing the air blue the minute he walked through the door.

"I can see you're not much tidier than you used to be."

Galahad just looked up from the book he was flicking through. "Why change the habit of a lifetime Gawain?" The smile he managed this time was far more genuine that the one from the tavern, and Gawain couldn't stay angry, much like he never could.

"True enough." Gawain picked his way across the room, looking almost enviously at the obviously Sarmatian blanket thrown across the small cot. "So, she'd really gone and married someone else?"

Galahad nodded. "And my family don't need me. I have a brother now, and more sisters."

"Did you really expect them to stay the same?"

"No, but I wasn't expecting as much to have changed so drastically."

"Well things here stay painfully the same." Gawain perched on the edge of the table. "Are you planning on staying this time?"

"It depends. Are you ever leaving?"

Gawain shook his head. "I doubt it. I have a place here, and I had a letter from home a few months ago, most of my family were wiped out by disease over the winter. The ones that survived have moved on; there's just a few cousins left now." He shook his head again. "I have everything to live for here, and nothing there. Might as well stay."

Galahad looked horrified. "That's, I'm sorry."

"It's just another part of life out there. We lost enough people here from winter sickness."

They sat there for a while, only the odd rustle of a page breaking the silence.

"Would you have married her?" Gawain sputtered out after a while.

Galahad looked up, thinking, "No. She wasn't what I wanted." He replied, looking steadily at Gawain the whole time.

It only took him a second to realise what Galahad meant. "That's the past. We agreed."

"Because I had someone to marry when I went home."

"No. It's past now."

They sat there for a while longer, Galahad staring at Gawain while Gawain did his best to avoid the others eyes.

"So that's just it?" Galahad almost spat out after a while.

"It's what has to be." Gawain meets his eyes eventually. "Is this what you were waiting to find out when you said it depends?"

Galahad nodded slowly. "Yes."

"Well I hope you're prepared to pack all of this up by yourself."

Galahad looked gob smacked for a moment, but before he had a chance to respond, Gawain had already left the room.

 

Bors sat and watched as Gawain sank deeper and deeper into the flagon of wine. Over the course of the evening Galahad had failed to appear, and it was plainly obvious that Gawain's drinking and the absence of Galahad were intimately connected.

It was well past midnight when Gawain finally roused himself from his position of wallowing in misery and looked at Bors, slightly unfocussed but never the less determined.

"I have to fix this."

"How?" Bors asked, watching as the other knight got to his feet, swayed a little then took a step forward. He stopped at Bors' question and thought.

"I'll think of something by the time I get there."

Bors shook his head and smiled. Gawain made it to the doorway before he stumbled again, and Bors decided this'd maybe be a good time to help his friend at least as far as his room.

They made it with minimal injury and fuss, and Gawain leaned against the doorframe. "If you hear screams, don't come running. It might be for the best that one of us ends up maimed." He laughed as he pushed the door open, and Bors just looked at him before turning back down the corridor.

The room was in darkness, no lamps burned and the windows had been covered for the night. Gawain made his way across the open expanse of floor, picking his way around the detritus that was Galahad as best as he could in his drunken state.

"Galahad?" his voice was a stage whisper as he prodded the sleeping form of the younger man.  
For all that he'd been away from combat for over a year, Galahad's reflexes were still well honed, and he had Gawain's wrist in a tight grasp before the drunken knight could react.

"Galahad, let go."

But Galahad's grip just got tighter, and pulled Gawain down. Gawain went willingly enough though, the years of frustration followed by the months of complete denial washing away as Galahad forced him into a rough kiss.

From there on it was as violent a coupling as any battle the two of them had been involved in.

After, as they lay bruised and sore and sated, they looked at each other.

"So," Galahad ventured, "what now?"

"Sleep Galahad." Gawain mumbled, his face pressed against the pillow.

Galahad was gone from their room by the time Gawain's hangover had passed enough for him to pull the blanket from over his head, but the room was still cluttered with his belongings so he ventured that the younger knight hadn't left for good.

  
They managed to avoid each other for the rest of the day. Galahad gave Arthur as detailed recollections of his travels as he could, and cooed happily over Guinevere's baby before taking his horse for a ride above the wall.

Brief words were exchanged over supper, but Gawain was preoccupied with news from his town of an outbreak of fever, and by the next morning he was gone.

It was another month before he returned; tired and looking thinner than he had when he left. He reported to Arthur, briefing him on the outbreak of disease that had ruined families and prevented a full harvest, then fell into bed. Galahad took it upon himself to watch over the other knight, attention that Gawain accepted more because he was too tired to object than because he truly appreciated it.  
   
They talked over that week; about the people they'd lost, Galahad's family back in Sarmatia and the family that Gawain had found in the small town he was now in charge of. They talked about all the things that had happened over the years. But the one thing that they didn't talk about was what had happened the night before Gawain left.

The majority of the winter was spent in a similar state of non-communication. Gawain shared his time between the fort and the town, Galahad occasionally accompanying him, other times, helping with the running of the fort, or getting under foot when there was nothing to do.

They drank together, laughed together, and when Bors and Vanora finally threw them from the tavern in the early hours of the morning, more often than not they would fine their way to one or the others beds and fall into a tangle of limbs.

But spring had to come, no matter what Galahad told himself, and his choice had to be made one way or another.

It was early March when it finally happened. Arthur had been talking about taking a trip to the heart of the empire, Guinevere steadfastly refusing to accompany him, and while the two argued in the background, Bors drank on, and pointed looks passed between Galahad and Gawain.

"Are you coming back to Sarmatia?" Galahad asked a few hours later as they sat watching over the forests to the north of the wall.

Gawain shook his head. "You know I'm not."

They continued to sit in silence a while longer, the sun slowly set, and people stopped coming and going so noisily. The gates were closed and the watch changed, but still they sat in silence.

"You won't stay then?"

Galahad snorts. "No. Gawain," he looked at the other man, "please come back."

"No. My place is here."

"Your place is in Sarmatia with your family. The people that you fought so damn hard to get back to for all those years." Galahad stood up, towering over the still seated Gawain who just looked at him.

"I don't have a family any more." He reminded the younger man quietly.

"Then mine would take you in."

"No they wouldn't." Gawain stood up and walked off, leaving Galahad floundering for a response.

Unable to face their room that night he slept in the stables, his only company the proud Sarmatian horse his father had given him when he left.

The fort was, for the next month a hive of activity as Arthur readied for his trip to Rome, and passed off most of his responsibility to Guinevere. The Roman landowners still in Briton spent most of that time complaining which gave Gawain something to focus on, since he had been delegated to take note of their complaints and, per Guinevere's instructions, lose them somewhere.

Galahad kept himself busy, helping to update maps and oversee the loading of wagons, and generally avoiding Gawain.

The morning of the departure was grey and over cast. Bors grumbled the entire time that they were waiting in the courtyard as the final checks were made and goodbyes were said.

The night before had been one of heavy drinking, even on Arthur's part, and the four men were looking decidedly worse for wear. Against all of Gawain's best intentions, he and Galahad had found themselves in bed together by the end of the night, and though they hadn't spoken of it since, Gawain was trying not to stare too hard at a pronounced mark on Galahad's neck.

He watched as Arthur embraced Bors, let his commander do the same to him, watched him kiss Guinevere and promise to stay safe. He listened politely to the careful speech Arthur had prepared and then looked at Galahad who had approached him.

"What'll you do now?"

"Go back to my town in a few weeks, see how badly the winter hit them, and then, I don't know." He shrugged.

"You could still come back." Galahad reminded him.

"To what? A deserted home and no future?"

Galahad squared up, almost begging for a fight. "My family would have you. They would."

"And then what? Where would that leave us?" Gawain stood up and faced Galahad. "This wasn't supposed to happen Galahad. We left it too long and we've paid. But I'm not going back, and since you won't stay, maybe it's just best to say our goodbyes."

**Author's Note:**

> I could ramble for an age on this.  
> This was a bitch to write. It changed fandoms, genres and pairings several times. I have three previous drafts that I despise.  
> But I'm happy with this. It has jumps in the narrative that are jarring. There are revelations that the reader won't get until the characters get them, and I realise that some people won't like it. I'm sorry, but that's how it was written.  
> And no, there won't be a sequel where Galahad comes back/Gawain goes to Sarmatia and they live happily ever after. If you don't know the song (then you're missing out) you'll know that it's a raw song, and I wanted this fic to have that raw, painful edge to it. Right from the outset I knew that this would not end happily.  
> So there you have it.


End file.
